


Down Time

by tinymage



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, I'll be adding tags as I go, Runes, Slow Burn, Stargazing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25893367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinymage/pseuds/tinymage
Summary: In which Fey and Muriel steal what moments of calm they can in the midst of chaos.
Relationships: Apprentice/Muriel (The Arcana)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	1. VI - The Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Muriel's perspective. Takes place in chapter VI after Fey (MC) tends to Muriel's wounds.

She fell asleep by the fire.

Muriel, for once, is frustrated by the quiet--he has far too much room to think. Far too much time to consider the events of that day. Absently, he runs his fingers over the wounds Fey had tended. What was raw and bleeding mere hours before now looked to be weeks old, and far neater than many scars he’d gained from lesser wounds. If he focused, he could feel the slight remnants of her magic like electricity under the skin.

It’s uncomfortably intimate, being healed by someone. Muriel can still feel the gentle drag of soft fingertips on his skin--can still feel Fey’s careful intent, the way she handled him like spun glass that might shatter at one wrong touch. Face warm, he stares down at his hands for a moment before shaking the thoughts from his mind. His eyes land on Fey’s sleeping form, drooped over the small stool by the hearth, her cheek squished against folded arms. That can’t be comfortable. Muriel’s eyes flick to his empty bed. It’s not much, but the least he can do is save her from a backache and a crick in her neck in the morning. It's not like he'll be getting any sleep regardless.

He should move her.

Before he can second guess himself, he’s gingerly scooping her up in his arms, careful to hold her away from his body. She stirs slightly, murmuring softly in sleep, her fluffy hair slipping into her face in the process. As carefully as he can, he lays her down on the bed-- _his_ bed--and pulls the furs over her. Despite himself, he gently sweeps her hair out of her face.

Inanna noses his leg with a huff, startling him slightly. She gives Muriel a knowing look, and he watches in disbelief as she hops onto the bed to curl up against Fey’s sleeping form.

Muriel flushes, turning abruptly back to his pile of furs in the corner. Propped against the wall, he tips his head back to stare at the ceiling--anything to keep his eyes off the figure sleeping peacefully across the room. He’s once again struck by the shocking intimacy of his situation. For so long, there was no one but Asra, but suddenly this _other_ fluffy-headed magician is in his life-- _in his bed!_ \--whether he likes it or not. 

Whether he likes it or not, Muriel has a decision to make. He’s not sure how to feel, which is unusual. With anyone else, there’d be no question. Just let them forget.

But with Fey… it occurs to him how callous that would be. She’s missing so much already--having been there for Asra through everything, he’s uncomfortably familiar with what she lost. Before now, he’d never been confronted so directly with a chance to give her the myrrh--they’d been nothing but passing strangers. There was no need to remember him.

But now, to not give her the charm was a choice. One he didn’t think he could stomach without guilt. He recalls her own guilty reaction when she thought it was her fault she’d forgotten him. She didn't deserve yet another memory-related hangup. Besides, it would be frustrating if she forgot. Watching her struggle to remember him each time they ran into each other by happenstance would be worse than just… having to deal with being known. Probably.

Muriel sighs.

In the morning, he thinks. He’ll give her the myrrh in the morning. Immediately, something softens within him at the idea. In the dark, he can just see the vague rise and fall of her breathing beneath the furs, Inanna tucked beside her. It’s soothing. 

As he drifts off, some quiet part of him considers that it’s not just for her sake that he’s choosing to let her remember. Muriel can’t quite shake the memory of her healing touch, of her gentle insistence that he allow her to take care of him. He’s still baffled by how hard she’d pushed herself, expending efforts that he frankly didn’t feel worthy of. Maybe the quiet part of him that wants more of that is selfish.

Maybe... it wouldn’t be so bad to be remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> planning to write a little fluffy scene that fits neatly into each chapter of muriel's upright route! wish me luck, i've never written anything more than a oneshot :')


	2. VII - The Chariot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fey's (MC) perspective. Takes place during the "let's go someplace quiet" paid scene in chapter VII.

Fey's home was nothing if not cozy.

Plenty of the decor screamed Asra (the absurd number of colorful pillows being a prime example) but in the end it was more Fey’s apartment than his in terms of time spent actually living in the space. Fey’s taste was more subdued; pressed flowers suspended in glass panes, blankets knitted of motley colors draped over the bed, clusters of candles and crystals meant to protect and calm the space. She liked her simple throw rug over the polished wood floor, her cozy reading chair by the windowsill, and her many, many plants crowding any free surface, some of which were wilting from neglect. Fey sourly notes she’ll have to return more often to take care of them—

And then her gaze falls to Muriel, looking distinctly out of place perched on a pile of pillows with a steaming cup of tea in hand. When she meets his eyes, he suddenly seems very interested in the floor. 

“Are you... sure it’s okay that I’m here.” 

His voice wavers, uncertainty ringing through his tone, and Fey frowns. She wants him to feel welcome, if that’s possible for him.

“Muriel. It’s my apartment,” she says seriously. “I can have anyone I want over. And I want you here.”

He frowns at that, clearly unfamiliar with the concept, and Fey’s heart feels just a little heavier. 

Outside, the lingering Vesuvian rain comes down in sheets. It’ll be a while before they can continue to the palace without getting drenched. Seeing as Muriel isn’t particularly keen on conversation, Fey flits about taking care of little tasks she’s neglected in her absence. 

Her herb garden is in shambles, the leaves crisped beyond repair—for anyone without magic, that is. She passes her hand delicately over each sprout, smiling absently as they unfurl into soft, pleasant greens once more. When she turns away, she finds Muriel watching her curiously, though he averts his gaze quickly when she smiles at him. Now that his tea is gone, he seems to be getting antsier by the minute, not knowing what to do with his hands.

“I doubt the rain’s stopping anytime soon,” she muses. 

Muriel gives an affirmative hum, but otherwise says nothing. She’s dying to make him more comfortable somehow, mentally agonizing on every slight bit of body language she catches from him. Maybe if she...

“Ooh, want me to do a reading for you?” Her eyes shine with excitement, “Just for fun?”

“... Fun.”

His tone is so deadpan, you’d think he’d never heard of such a thing. She can’t help but laugh—honestly she’s growing fond of his surliness. He doesn’t seem opposed to the idea, but she figures it’s better to be sure.

“Only if you want, that is... the cards don’t often respond well to unwilling participants anyway,” she grimaces. Plenty of customers have tried to push loved ones into a reading, and it never ends well. 

Muriel quirks an eyebrow, but doesn’t ask. 

“Cards don’t have much to say to me,” he huffs, voice tapering off as if talking more to himself than anything. “At least runes are more straightforward.”

He looks alarmed when Fey rises suddenly, her eyes lit up, and sweeps over to a bookshelf in the corner. She hovers about until she finds what she’s looking for: a wooden box up nearly too high for her to reach. She presses up on her toes to gingerly retrieve the box, holding it safe against herself as she slips back into her seat across from Muriel. She doesn’t have much experience with them, but maybe they’ll spark Muriel’s interest.

“What if you read for me, then?”

Fey meets his eyes hopefully as she opens the box, revealing a set of polished wooden runes, neatly carved to bring out the natural beauty of the wood grain. Muriel stares. His expression unnerves her, unsure why it’s so shocking that a magician would own runes.

“Um. They’re Asra’s,” she explains. “He’s taught me a bit, but—“

“I know, I… I made them.”

“Oh... _Oh!_ ” 

it’s Fey’s turn to be surprised now. She picks one up, turning it over in her hand with newfound appreciation. They really are gorgeous--the wood is warm and smooth, thrumming with magical energy. Muriel looks away, red blooming across his features. 

“Muriel... that’s incredible. They’re so pretty...”

Fey grins, leaning forward conspiratorially.

“Now you _have_ to give me a reading.”

He purses his lips, blushing. There’s that expression again… the man surely isn’t used to compliments. Fey’s on the edge of her seat (or pillow, rather) as she looks expectantly up at him.

“... Fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let! muriel! cast! runes!! I played his route first and had NO IDEA he did any magic whatsoever until I played through the main three and was super surprised


	3. VIII - Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fey's perspective. Takes place in chapter VIII the morning after the "you can stay" scene.

Fey wakes to the early morning light streaming through the palace windows. The sun is barely just rising, dust motes dancing through the golden beams. She groans, stretching and sliding out of the too-large bed. Despite how tired she feels, she’s still much too awake to stay there. 

Beside the bed her clothes have been laundered and folded neatly, much to her surprise, and a pitcher of fresh water sits on the dresser nearby. Gratefully, Fey splashes her face a few times, running a damp hand through her hair in a halfhearted attempt to tame her bedhead, and steps clumsily into her clothes. 

No point in lingering, she thinks, and opens the door--only to find Muriel’s bulky figure draped against the doorframe, arms crossed and snoring slightly. Or at least he was… at the sound of the door he jumps, blinking up at Fey with a confused and slightly guilty expression.

“You’re awake,” he grumbles, “It’s early… why are you awake.”

“Muriel?” Fey says stupidly, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

Staring down at him (there's a first), she realizes how disheveled he looks… there’s no normal way to ask this.

“Did you… sleep out here?” 

He blanches. “What. No. Of course not…”

She raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. Muriel avoids her eyes.

“I can’t sleep in strange places. I was just. Making sure nothing dangerous came by in the night,” his voice is gruff, the shadows beneath his eyes appearing deeper than yesterday.

Fey’s cheeks burn with the realization that he was guarding her door. His words from the night before echo in her head.  
_If you’re expecting me to protect you…_  
Guess that didn’t stop him from trying, she muses, warmth settling in her chest.

“Hmh… Next time you can’t sleep, just come inside.”

“That’s a bad way to keep an eye on things.”

“I warded the room... You’d have been safe there.”

"That’s _your_ room.”

Fey reaches out to lay a hand on his shoulder; he jumps a little, staring up at her, but doesn't shrink from her touch. Maybe she’s making progress with him after all...

“I don’t mind. You’re welcome there,” she says simply.

He says nothing, but his expression softens a bit. Fey yawns behind her hand, suddenly feeling the hour. There’s no way anyone else is awake.

“The servants kept passing by and staring at me,” Muriel grumps.

Fey quirks a sympathetic smile, “Yet another reason to come inside.”

Muriel’s face warms, and Fey looks towards the door again.

“You should get some real sleep...”

“There’s no point. I won’t be able to sleep. Not here,” Muriel frowns, staring straight past her. 

Some part of Fey's mind is dying to know what his connection to palace is... he was there on the night of the Count's death, and he mentioned he knew Nadia 'before'. She lets it drop, tucking that thought away for her more lucid hours. Either way, this definitely isn't his hut--It makes sense he'd be wary. 

“The beds _are_ suspiciously comfortable. I wouldn’t trust them either,” she smirks. 

He huffs what could be classified as a laugh, if she was being generous, but quickly slips back into that brooding expression. There’s no way Fey’s going to leave Muriel like this. She wonders what it would take for him to feel safe, if only for an hour or two. After a moment of consideration, Fey offers her hand, meeting his eyes earnestly. He stares at it for a long moment, and Fey shakes her head with a light sigh.

“C’mon. You don’t have to sleep, but at least come inside to rest. I can ward the door, too, if you want.” she smiles sleepily, tilting her head. “I’ll be your bodyguard.”

Her voice is rough, eyes still tired. He appraises her for a long moment before he takes her hand, and she makes a truly pitiful attempt at helping him up. Fey flushes in her sleepy stupor, unsure why she thought that was a good idea. He shuts his eyes, huffing as if thinking the same thing, but doesn’t let go of her hand as he stands up to his full height. She blinks up at him for a moment. _He's like if a tree were a person,_ she thinks groggily, trying very hard not to stare at his chest--It's more difficult than one might expect, considering it's at eye level for her. Asra was only an inch or two taller than her, but Muriel dwarfed them both by almost a foot. 

Face still warm, she leads Muriel into her room. He lingers by the door awkwardly until she pats the edge of the bed. Muriel looks dubious, but takes a seat there anyway. Despite the massive, ornate bed, he still manages to look huge. Even laying back, Fey imagines his feet would still touch the floor. They lapse into silence, Muriel frowning at the swirling patterns on the carpet. Though he didn’t ask, Fey begins tracing her protection runes into the grain of the door. _Tiwaz. Thurisaz. Algiz._ Balance, defense, protection.

“... Why do you care so much.”

Fey’s quiet for a long moment.

“You deserve to feel safe, too,” she says softly.

She turns to meet his eyes. He looks calmer, if a little baffled. Giving him a small smile, she leans heavily against the door frame, sliding down to the floor. Within moments, her eyelids slip closed. 

“Fey.”

“Mm?”

“... Thanks.”

She smiles.

“Any time. I mean it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not super sure about this one... it's more heavily based on a canon scene than i'd like, but i think the boy deserved some rest before he went to pet cats and weave flower crowns.


	4. IX - The Hermit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Muriel's perspective. Takes place after the fight with Vulgora in chapter IX.

“You got hurt,” Muriel says, brow furrowing at the way his voice wavers. 

He doesn’t know whether to be touched that Fey protected him or angry for putting herself in danger--he’s still reeling after she leapt to defend him from Vulgora without hesitation. Unthinking, he reaches to brush some dirt from Fey’s cheek. She looks up at him with wide eyes, a hint of pink coloring her cheeks.

Coming back to himself, he retracts his hand as if burned and mirrors her blush. Stupid. 

“Are… you alright?” he manages.

“Me?” Fey says incredulously, almost laughing, “I’ll be okay.”

Muriel frowns, looking her over from her slightly disheveled hair to her worn leather boots; she’s covered in dust, and her pants are torn at the knee. Minimal blood beads from a scrape there, but aside from that she really does look unharmed. He’s surprised by the intensity of the relief that makes its home in his chest.

“What about you?” she says, deep gold eyes searching his face. “You’re bleeding.”

Muriel blinks down at her. He really hasn’t had time to think about it, but it’s true. His face is streaked in quickly drying blood. He is, however, well acquainted with head wounds--even the small ones bleed profusely.

“It’s nothing.” He means it.

“It’s not,” Fey frowns, looking around for a moment before stepping up onto a flat rock that puts her a little closer to his height, “C’mere.”

Warily, he shuffles forward, expression dubious as he settles before her within arm’s reach. Fey’s shuffling in her bag, pulling out a clean cloth and a bottle of something that smells astringent when she opens it. She looks up at him for permission as she reaches out to clear away what she can. Muriel huffs, but acquiesces, shutting his eyes as cloth hits skin.

“This is unnecessary,” he grumbles.

She's ignoring him.

She cards one hand into his hair and his eyes shoot open, only to flinch shut when she presses the stinging cloth to the gash on his forehead. It’s really not bad, but the proximity is setting him on edge. Muriel’s not exactly accustomed to people being in his space.

“Sorry,” she hisses.

“S’fine.”

He was right about the wound being small. Warm magic wells in her hands for mere seconds as she swipes a thumb along the cut, and he feels the skin knit together smoothly. She places a hand under his chin, gently turning his face this way and that to check her work. Muriel stares down at her, and she gives him a slight smile that brings heat to his face.

“Satisfied?” he grumbles. The whole process probably only took thirty seconds, but under her scrutiny it felt like ages.

She nods once.

“Now you,” he’s staring at her knee.

Fey sighs, brushing dust off her clothes as she leans down, and swipes a hand carelessly over the abrasion. When she straightens up, there’s still a bit of blood smeared, but it’s healed.

“There. All good,” she says, smiling wryly.

Muriel frowns, finding her carelessness when it comes to her own safety irritating. He feels suddenly heavy, thinking of the danger even one of Lucio’s lackeys put them in.

“But we lost.”

“We didn’t beat them, sure. But we’re both still here,” she shrugs, gaze steady and warm, “And Vulgora is gone. Next time, we’ll be ready for them.”

“How can you be so... optimistic?” Muriel can’t fathom where she gets it from--they weren’t safe from Lucio in Vesuvia, and they certainly aren’t safe from him here.

As she parts her lips to reply, Morga shouts from outside.

“Quit wasting time--I said come with me!”

Muriel startles as Fey takes his hand, staring down at where they're joined. When she gives it a gentle squeeze, he finds it more grounding than he'd care to admit. She gives him a soft smile, and his face warms.

“Let’s go,” she says.

Muriel can only nod, and Fey follows after Morga, pulling him in tow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i realized this technically happens in Wheel of Fortune, but soooo much happens in that one and i have other ideas. oops
> 
> here are some sketches of fey if anyone is curious :') https://i.gyazo.com/70e7c823ee4174db4bbc3047f830bca7.png


	5. X - Wheel of Fortune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fey's perspective. Takes place the night of their first kiss.

Fey thinks she’s starting to understand why it’s called the Shining Steppe.

After several sparring sessions with Morga at their throats, Muriel and Fey were beyond exhausted. Morga had gone to scout ahead afterward, leaving the two of them alone around a dwindling campfire. Aside from the occasional pop of smoldering charcoal, it was quiet on the steppe.

In the dying firelight, it’s like the whole sky opens up to them. Fey peers up into the violet expanse, transfixed by the seemingly infinite pinpricks of light. She flops back on her bedroll, a soft, awed sound slipping from her.

Muriel (who, to her intense surprise, had blushingly set his bedroll up next to hers that night) gives her a questioning look.

“What.”

“It’s just... incredible,” Fey replies, not daring to take her eyes off the sky.

“City folk,” Muriel huffs, but his eyes are soft. “You act like you’ve never seen stars before.”

Fey pouts, still not looking at him. She hasn’t had much experience traveling--Asra did enough of that for the both of them. This is the furthest she’s been from the heart of Vesuvia in her living memory, and as fond as she is of the warm city lights, they pale in comparison.

“I… kind of haven’t,” she muses softly. “Not like this, and never so… _many_.”

“You mean, Asra never…?”

Fey sighs, closing her eyes for a moment. Asra was… complicated.

“Never far out of the city. He thought it was too risky.” as hard as she tries, she can’t keep the bitter tang out of her tone.

She turns to meet his eyes, staring up into soft green.

“Really, I’m almost as much of a hermit as you,” she teases with a wry smile that he almost returns. 

“I don’t blame him, exactly. Two years ago I could barely speak for myself. I wouldn’t trust me either.”

Muriel frowns.

“Asra trusts you.”

“Right, which is why he sends a mysterious, untraceable bodyguard to check on me any time he’s away,” she retorts with a pointed look.

Muriel doesn’t seem to have an answer to that. Fey sits up from her bedroll, tucking her legs beneath her. The scant space between them is tangible, making her stomach flip.

“I know it’s because he cares. And you do make me feel… safer,” a shy glance passes between them, “It would just be nice to know _something, anything_ that goes through his head.”

Muriel just hums. They’re both well acquainted with Asra's capricious nature. As frustrating as it can be, it’s part of his charm, Fey supposes.

“Would’ve also been nice to know someone was looking out for me,” she muses, quieter. “It gets… lonely. When he's gone. It’s a shame we weren’t friends earlier.”

Muriel’s hand finds hers, gentle and warm and grounding. She’s quietly grateful that his pointed shackles are gone now, for more than one reason.

“That wouldn’t have worked. I wasn’t ready to have… friends,” he frowns, voice low like distant thunder. “I don’t know if I would’ve _ever_ been ready. If you hadn’t shown up...”

There’s a long pause, and Fey can see the thoughts warring in his expression in the dark. She can read his face so easily now. Red blooms across his cheeks as he continues.

“I… I'm glad you did. I like… this.”

Absently, he rubs his thumb over hers. The pull between them seems to grow, and Fey finds herself inching closer. The warmth he radiates makes her shiver, her heart thrumming in her chest like a hummingbird.

“Me, too,” she says.

Hesitant as ever, she drops her head against his shoulder, smiling to herself when he seems to relax into the contact. In the comfortable silence that follows, Fey’s mind wanders to earlier that night. 

She still can’t believe she kissed him--it already feels like a dream, yet it happened only hours prior. She would’ve already begun to doubt herself if not for the lingering glances Muriel kept sending her way. And miraculously enough, _he kissed her back_. Her whole body is still buzzing with warm adrenaline, something Asra's teasing and the sparring sessions that followed did nothing to ease.

At this rate, she suspects her face might be slightly pink for the rest of her natural life.

Their eyes catch when she peeks up at him, and he flusters, clearing his throat. He tries multiple times to speak, the shade of red coloring his cheeks deepening by the second.

“... Can I kiss you?” he manages, meeting her eyes with some difficulty.

Fey can only nod, mirroring his flushed expression as she realizes they were both thinking the same thing.

He leans down glacially slow, as if he expects her to change her mind at any second, but of course she doesn’t. She surges up onto her knees to meet him halfway, leaning into him for support. It’s a chaste, shy little thing at first--but when Fey fits a small hand to his scarred jawline he hums against her, pressing closer. A large, warm hand finds the small of her back, and heat surges in her veins. Fey thinks she could get lost in this, just the solid, steady presence of Muriel beside her, against her.

Fey feels safer than she ever has.

She’s beaming when they part, breathless. Muriel’s blushing all the way down to his collarbones, showcasing the skin previously covered by his collar quite nicely. He seems to notice her staring at him like he's something to eat, deciding it’s finally too much for him.

“I--don’t look at me like that,” he sputters, mouth pressing into that mortified wobble, and then abruptly: “I’m going to bed.”

Fey snickers when he falls back against his bedroll with a pout. His hand still rests gently on her back, though. Feeling emboldened, she leans over him to meet his eyes, thumbs grazing the stubble along his jaw.

He looks up at her with something like wonder, and affection burns white-hot in her chest. Green meets gold in silent permission, and she presses her lips to his once more, soft and slow.

This time, he’s smiling softly up at her, and she laughs a little breathlessly before settling down beside him. The steppe shines above them, and Fey feels small, but safe with Muriel beside her.

“We should go stargazing once we’re back in Vesuvia, too,” Fey says softly.

“...I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am soft for stargazing with the mountain man


	6. XI - Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Muriel's perspective. Takes place at Khamgalai's house in chapter XI.

They’d only been there minutes, but already Khamgalai’s house feels like home. Muriel’s instincts say not to trust it, but it’s difficult not to. It’s oddly like his hut, with most of the furniture being strictly functional, furs scattered and draped across the surfaces--even little wooden carvings and the smoky scent of myrrh. It’s so much like home… except this place speaks of a history that his home can’t. Tapestries cover the walls, intricate weavings of upright animals acting out the history that Khamgalai had just told him. Looking closer, he can see most of them are bears. The barest hint of a smile plays at his lips.

He stares down at the cup of kumis on the rickety table.

Fey’s been quiet, likely giving him space to process all of this. Looking over to her, she gives him a reassuring smile, her small hand finding its way into his. Her presence is grounding. All of this feels like a dream, and she’s his anchor to reality. It’s unnerving, having your whole history unraveled and reformed in an instant. Muriel doesn’t know how long it’s going to take for him to understand, to sort out his feelings. 

The idea that he was _not_ unwanted, that he was not alone, with no history to speak of--it’s too much for him in so many ways. He wouldn’t believe it if the proof wasn’t all around him, literally woven into cloth and carved into miles of stone, etched into the wizened smile of the woman sitting across the table from him.

Muriel had family.

As he and Fey ascend to the hilltop where his parents were buried, every step feels heavier. They’re _right here_. They’d been _right here_ all along. His heart aches for the parents he’ll never know, whom he spent his whole life resenting based on false assumptions. 

The minute Khamgalai leaves them, Muriel’s facade cracks. Tears long withheld well in his eyes as he traces the carvings in the sun-warmed stone. The second Fey places a hand on his back, they fall, and they don’t stop falling. But she’s right there, holding him. 

It’s okay to cry, she’d said, but she meant so much more. It’s okay to feel. It’s okay to need, to want. It’s okay to _be_. 

When she promises to be there for him, that it’s okay for him to need her, it’s staggering. A lifetime’s worth of baggage can’t be sorted in one day, but he finds himself willing to start.

As he places forget-me-nots at his parents’ graves, it feels like he’s left a weight he’d been carrying for far too long. Nothing is better or worse afterward, but it’s distinctly different.

When he steps away with Fey by his side, he feels something like hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is so short i considered writing something else instead but. head empty. 
> 
> i was gonna write a sweaty chapter about sparring but when i replayed the book i just got sad instead :") i love that NOTHING BAD HAPPENS literally right after this. nope. not a thing


End file.
